We left in half an hour. ‘Do you think that painting’s been stolen?’ Lalmohan Babu enquired. ‘Yes, that is what I am afraid of.’ ‘I wasn’t really all that interested in the painting before. But now, having read that book and talked to the Rajah, I feel sort of personally involved with Tontiretto.’ Feluda was frowning, so deep in thought that he didn’t even try to correct Lalmohan Babu. This time, Lalmohan Babu’s driver drove faster and we reached Baikunthapur in a couple of hours. A few new people had arrived in the Niyogi household—Nobo Kumar’s wife and two children. But two people were missing. One of them was Rudrasekhar, who had left for Calcutta very early that morning. The other was Bankim Babu. He had been murdered. Someone had struck him on his head with a heavy object. Death must have been instantaneous. His body was found by a servant in the studio. The police surgeon had placed the time of death between 3 and 5 a.m. ‘I rang you first,’ said Nobo Kumar, ‘but you appeared to be out. So I had to inform the police.’ ‘You did right,’ Feluda said. ‘But tell me, is the picture still here?’ ‘That’s what’s so strange. Mind you, it’s easy enough to see who the killer might be. I had found his behaviour extremely suspicious right from the start. He was clearly in need of money, but to go through the legal system would have taken at least six months, so I guess . . .’ ‘No. It would have taken much longer. I learnt from Bhudev Singh he had heard from Chandrasekhar only five years ago.’ ‘Really? Well, in that case, his son has no legal rights at all.’ ‘That wouldn’t stop him from stealing, would it?’ ‘But that’s the whole point! He didn’t steal the picture. It’s still hanging in the same spot.’ ‘That is most peculiar,’ Feluda had to admit. ‘What do the police say?’ ‘They are still asking questions. The main thing now is to catch our departed guest. Last night, I was here with my family, my parents, Robin Babu and our servants. I didn’t see Rudrasekhar at dinner.’ ‘I am curious about Robin Babu.’ ‘He seems all right. He normally works in his room until two in the morning. Our bearer brings him his morning tea at eight. Rudrasekhar used to get up at the same time. But today, while Robin Babu was still in his room, Rudrasekhar had gone. He left at six-thirty, apparently. With him went his artist.’

‘What artist?’ ‘An artist arrived the day you left, at Rudrasekhar’s invitation, to assess the value of everything in the studio. I suspect he wanted to sell the whole lot.’ ‘I assume he didn’t speak to you before he left?’ ‘No, not a word to me or anyone else. Our chowkidar saw him leave. At first I thought he had just gone up to speak to his lawyers. But now I’m sure he’s not going to come back.’ ‘May I see his room?’ ‘Certainly. It’s through here.’ We were sitting in a room on the ground floor. A door on our right opened into a room that had been given to Rudrasekhar. It looked like something straight out of a film, set in the nineteenth century. The bed and the stands for hanging a mosquito net, the writing desk and the dressing table were all old, the likes of which would be difficult to find nowadays. ‘This room was originally my grandfather, Suryasekhar Niyogi’s,’ Nobo Kumar informed us. ‘In his old age, he couldn’t climb stairs at all. So he stayed on the ground floor permanently.’ ‘The bed hasn’t been made yet,’ Feluda observed. ‘The morning’s been so chaotic! I bet the maid who usually makes beds simply forgot her duties.’ ‘I wouldn’t blame her. Who’s got the next room?’ ‘That is . . . was . . . Bankim Babu’s.’ There was a communicating door between the two rooms, but it appeared to be locked. We trooped out and entered the other room through another door. This room looked much more lived in. Clothes hung from a rack, under which were some shoes and chappals. A table stood in a corner, piled high with books, papers, writing material and a Remington typewriter. A few framed photos hung on the wall. No one had bothered to make the bed in this room, either. Feluda suddenly strode forward and stood by the bed. Then he slipped his hand under the mosquito net and lifted the pillow. A small blue travelling alarm clock lay under it. ‘Hey, I used to do this when I was in school,’ Lalmohan Babu said casually. ‘I used to set the alarm very early in the morning, particularly before my exams, and place it under my pillow, so it didn’t wake others.’ ‘Hm,’ said Feluda, looking at the clock. ‘Bankim Babu set the alarm at 3.30 a.m.’ ‘Half-past three? That early?’ Nobo Kumar sounded amazed. ‘Yes, and that was when he probably went to the studio. I believe he was suspicious of something. He tried to tell me about it the last time I was here, but then seemed to change his mind.’ Nobo Kumar offered to take us to the studio where the murder had taken place. Before we could move, however, his children burst into the room and grabbed Lalmohan Babu’s hands. ‘Are you the famous Jatayu? Hey, we’ve read all your books!’ they exclaimed. ‘Come on, tell us a story!’ They dragged him back to the front room. Lalmohan Babu couldn’t help feeling flattered. He smiled and beamed, forgetting for the moment the rather sombre atmosphere in the house. But, as it turned out, he wasn’t quite as good at telling stories as he was at writing them. We left him there, struggling to get a few sentences together before the children interrupted with, ‘No, no, no! That’s from The Sahara Shivers!’ or, ‘We know that one. It’s in